The Pottery Class

Hugo had always wanted to try pottery, so he enrolled on a six-week course at the arts centre. On the first evening, in a studio that smelled of damp earth, the teacher, Mrs Lowe, showed the group how to prepare the clay. “Add too much water and it collapses,” she said, “and add too little and it cracks. You’ll find the balance with practice, and not before.”

Hugo’s first bowl looked more like a hat. “Don’t be discouraged,” Mrs Lowe said kindly. “By the time you make the next one, you’ll know exactly what to avoid.” She went on to explain that the bowls would dry slowly and that nobody could paint them until every trace of moisture had gone.

At the end of the class Mrs Lowe placed all the bowls in the kiln, and Hugo watched the door close with a feeling close to pride. “I’ll send you a message the moment they’re ready,” she promised. “You’re welcome to collect them on Saturday, provided you bring your receipt. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’ll keep them here until Monday.”

The message arrived on Friday night. At nine on Saturday morning Hugo pushed open the studio door, and there on the shelf stood his bowl. It was lopsided and rather heavy, but it was entirely his own, and he turned it in his hands for a long time. “When I get home,” he thought, “I’ll put some fruit in it.”

He decided to enrol on the next course. “If you practise every week, you improve remarkably fast,” Mrs Lowe told him as he paid. Hugo smiled. He had already bought a small notebook in which to record every one of his mistakes.